daguerreotype
by embroider
Summary: noun. /dəˈɡerəˌtīp/ "a photograph taken by an early photographic process employing an iodine-sensitized silvered plate and mercury vapor."
1. image

Bustling with case and bag, coat slung over shoulder, the man treaded begrudgingly alongside the street. His dress shoes made a smooth contact with pavement as he passed up and to a Post Office, which was old and refurbished.

This Post Office was especially important. The significant place where the man entered every morning after awaking and departing from his small complex on the 5th Avenue, just four blocks from the Post Office, was burdened with his compromise to complete daily routines. A faint push with the forearm to open the door that was made of a heavy hickory material and decorated with a large rectangular pattern; inside of it was an array of squares. Quaint and small. Upon entering there was a wall-to-wall countertop of the same hickory as the door. There was a once shimmer and polished floor, now dulled with scuffs and scratches, a touch of shades darker than the door he knew so well. A coat hanger he voluntarily bestowed the honor to hold his coat upon, and a few chairs that carried the faint odor of musk to the right and left. A stingy, dying potted plant sat in a corner. A father clock grounded the coffee grounds of time mercilessly in its hands, and if customers forgot to graze over their peripherals when entering, its presence would be startling.

Every detail was pointless, to turn over like stones in his mind. The décor of the room equated to the centerpiece of this company. Redundancy. Patches of yellow exploded like egg yolk, contrast against the diamond pattern wallpaper. Framed fireworks of nature, green stems and vivid pigment. Something like a Post Office took him so much work to actualize in his mind, tugging the site away from disassociation. It was a cold Tuesday morning, collecting above the metropolis of Baltimore in a thick, gushing haze. The sun existed in the frames. The Post Office, he consecutively pointed out, needs an adequate heater for this weather. Every time the secretary poised to write an endless amount of work on parchment would shake her head, and accented cooly, replies "We don' have the money."

"Is that so?"

Reaching into his pocket, he slid out the necessary amount of change to provide himself with a set of twenty stamps and ten envelopes. A large, clunky handful. The coins rested on the counter. His hands always smelt terrible after words. Touching the vile cash was the sacrifice an artist and a writer must make sometimes.

"Ya, hun. If you got _such_ a problem with it, and if ya' don't quit your whinin' every morning, how 'bout _you_ pay the bills for a heater in here, hm? That'd be _splendid_ ," Miss Pellein tacked onto her already saccharine statement. Miss Pellein was a feisty secretary. He liked her.

"I would rather pass," his lips curved into their usual stoic smile. A smile that was no more real than the happiness presented in buttercups, cooped up in a box, on the corner street of a smoky city.

"Suit yourself, but that's the last time I hear zilch come outta you." He took the parchment wrapped package, securing the bow of wire thin string before popping open his case. Dropped inside, case clicked shut. His cap was tipped, her glasses pushed back up as he touched the door, like always.

And he left, like always.

It was a cold Tuesday morning, collecting above the metropolis of his mind in a thick, gushing haze. Arthur Kirkland wasn't particularly different today. Neither was he yesterday, or the day before. Bland hazel eyes and simpleton dirty blonde hair hasn't been altered in any way.

Next? His journey of a passive work day. Not too rainy, a drizzle, so he left his ratty coat hanging on his shoulder.


	2. snapshot

Arthur Kirkland was a man whose roots trace back to London City. He grew up in the English city from birth to the age of sixteen. He has no mother or father, both are now late. Kirkland had grown up in a small household. Father worked, mother cooked. They had no pets, he had no siblings. He rarely spoke to his parents and simply attended school. Kirkland graduated with what was necessary: no more, no less.

A few days after graduation, his father handed him a ticket. A ticket to a docket, a military based passenger carrying boat. To America. Not a word was said as in the next two days, he prepared, packing every article of clothing he owned and little household items, and then left. He knew what he wanted from the "land of Freedom".

Not waiting a single moment to pause, he entered his office, which was adjunct and to the side of a much larger, older building. The structure that he was given had been built only seven years ago, intended to be a storage closet for photographic material. The finished process of photography had to go somewhere, his boss gingerly explained when he first put a heavy duty box of pounds of photos down, and this was the perfect spot. Kirkland had nodded at it, unbuttoned his heavy winter attire, and set off to organize. Today, every single glossy bit was stored away in an alphabetical cabinet. Each one had it's tab and sleeve, protecting it from damage in the back of the office. Fingerprints on the sheets were like malicious fingertips crawling up a skirt, itching to take away the most innocent purity.

This scenic monotone space was not that large. It was homey and cozy, two bodies could be seated comfortably and speak to him from in front of his desk. All his files on his desk were clearly neat and ready to be stored away, the chairs were swept clean, the desk was kept clothed down until it gave off a glow, and the only window on the side was periodically dusted. Just enough to maintain a flow and order. Other present items were a small, iron name card indicating who he was. A collection of charcoal pencils and the best writing utensils available for the company's budget.

The quadrant was dimly lit with a grey hue, the essence of a cloudy, monochromatic atmosphere. His eyes greedily ate up the masking of the undertone every day. His room did not need the sun, Kirkland decided. Such a beauty for a workplace was worth much more than that.

Setting down the case and bag right next to his personal coat hanger, he hung his coat and cap before closing the door, rolling back his shoulders and parting ways to the desk.

"Mister Kirkland, hello! I like it- Kirkland. Gotta nice ring to it. _Kirk-laaaand._ Never heard someone from Baltimore get that kinda monicker," was what he was instead greeted with.

Straw blonde hair, blue-grey eyes that resembled the same dreary sky of that day. A heavy tan, where it was obviously a farmer's as white skin peeped out from beneath a shirt collar. A shirt, with an emblem of the military sown onto the upper left area of the chest. Refined arms, scars covering him like freckles. Strong, worn hands. The glitter of a dog tag.

There was a U.S. Soldier seated in his office, cross legged with his combat boots, pants stuffed into them and t-shirt present, contrary to the weather outdoors. His hair faintly glossed over with the hint of rain when the mere light reflected against it.

Arthur Kirkland stood a foot in front of his door, then continued to progress through his regular schedule. Treading towards the desk, he stepped behind it, seated in a few moments. Pulling up to the desk, a new piece of parchment appeared from the cabinet. A pencil was taken, momentarily sharpened with a flick of a blade, soon returned back to it's hiding place in the same cabinet. The new found company watched, darting from the pencil to Kirkland's eyes, then back to some other focal point.

Pausing, the office chair creaked as the male sat back. Silent, his gaze rested on the stranger. He was poised with a hand in his lap and another holding his chin.

A few breaths of quiet passed. Kirkland waited.

The other tapped his foot onto the carpet. A bit shaggy, muffling the heavy combat boots to a null thump.

This unknown variable, _x,_ stared intently at Kirkland after a minute and a half passed. Somewhere next door, right against the wall, a grandfather clock made it's familiar coffee process.

An awkward, disfigured tension grew from variable _x_ to Kirkland. From Kirkland, to variable _x,_ there was no tension. Just awaiting.

Two minute mark. Finally, this _x_ spoke.

"... Well, I guess it's time for introductions, since you're gonna remain verbally anonymous." The soldier's eyes tracked the nametag, the bolded words engraved into metal. "I'm Alfred F. Jones,-" Kirkland's hand began to move in a hairbreadth time after the new information was announced, ratifying it on parchment. Jones, our now identified _x_ , was obviously unfamiliar with Kirkland's equation.

"2nd Lieutenant. Sharpshooter, grade Sergeant. I'm not wearin' my fancy badges and acorns, but I'm still quite a decorated man," Jones leaned forward a bit in the seat, hands splayed on his knees with an equally splayed grin.

Kirkland appointed this too, jotting down notes without haste. His pencil paused, gearing back to watch Jones. He tapped off a bit of dust on the parchment, to avoid rubbing in extra charcoal.

Jones' smile faltered, and it lessened, but it still embroidered his expression.

"Alright. Tough crowd. I get it."

"Interview?"

Jones nodded, popping his knuckles from consequential habit as he spoke, "I was sent by, uh, that Shifflet guy. Your boss, sorry. He said you were looking for an active Soldier to document and interview."

Kirkland tapped his pencil in affirmation, or perhaps, urgency. Jones' knee bounced in response. His lips pursed for a moment, then spoke once more:

"So, here I am, your guinea pig. Do what you will."

"Did you bring your personal documents, identification, enlistment papers?"

"Eh, no."

"Bring them tomorrow. We will be meeting every day at exactly this hour," eyeing his watch, the man nodded, "6:30 AM."

"Where are you from, Mister Kirkland? You're a weird guy," Jones chuckled, shifting again in his chair to try a different position, as it may be more comfortable and help ease the lack of safe net energy in the room.

"Down South-West, Virginia." Kirkland's voice did not carry an English accentuation. Syllables did not curve royally.

There was no English sound at all. This was a practiced American. He _was_ American.

"Oh, that explains why you don't sound like you're 'round these parts." Jones had never been to the country of Virginia. Not yet, at least.

"6:20 AM would be preferable, you're not coming after 6:30 AM. You're going to be here _at_ 6:30 AM, or before." Reiterated, a few more bits of information were noted and circled before the pencil rested peacefully on the desk.

"Yes, sir," the other American did his best to not dice in sarcasm to the statement, but Kirkland did resemble a corporal giving him orders.

"Go talk to Shifflet. He'll give you the rest of the information you need," the document was then being placed into a side cabinet on the desk, also filled with manilla folders to a square cut system. He put the document in the newest one, sliding it out to adorn the tag with a new owner's initials.

"Gotcha." Standing up, Kirkland's company stretched momentarily before back-stepping, providing a "see ya 'round, Virginian!" before walking out of the office and closing the door. T-shirt and all.

Kirkland blinked at the door, and then resumed to prepping Alfred F. Jones' new portfolio under the name of his company, and more specifically, his office. The meeting was quick, brief, and didn't allow for much wiggle room. It was exactly what he had desired for every interview, and each had gone as such.


	3. depiction

The man awoke that morning to the sound of droplets viciously scraping away at his roof and windows. Their presence was strongly acknowledged. His house was as cold as the rain outside, and the closest source of heat involved his natural body functioning in heavy throw blankets. He didn't want to leave the warm, empty, no-responsibility-hold of these soft fleece coverings. Except, work had to be done.

Kirkland got up. He was ready in about ten minutes. A brief check of the mailbox allowed him to enter once more to his home, put on his coat, grab his bag and case, put his cap on, and depart.

He couldn't quite afford an umbrella, the sheets of rain cutting through his coat like needles.

Rushing down the darkened, soggy and puddle-ridden sidewalk, he side stepped lamp posts and fire hydrants, newspaper boxes, and various mailboxes from homes reaching out into the bustling streets. Occasionally, the light from the giant candles in the lamp posts shone onto him. They were protected by a cap above, since electricity hadn't quite touched the brims of society's palms just yet. It still needed to find the glass slipper.

Those on horseback provided the rhythm to pass beside Kirkland on the street, having to occasionally move from splatters of slick and mud exploding onto the sidewalk.

He was under the safety of a massive, memorable door quite soon enough, and inside there was no rain to harass him. He took off his cap with a glance at the walls. The warm, fuzzy colors bowed with their still stems to his presence. Setting his coat on the hanger with his cap, he made pace walking towards the countertop.

"Mornin' Mister Kirkland. The usual?" Today, Miss Pellein was folding various letters into a special, thicker parchment. It had militant stamps, but the signatures he managed to eyeball weren't of importance. Nothing happening this week. She would slip the documents into their cozy tucks, then seal them with a quick press of wax, bright apple vermillion pooling against a cream vanilla paper. Everybody knew which names meant what in Baltimore after the Civil War occurred.

He nodded, fishing out the same amount of change needed, placing the fistful onto the counter. Kirkland wiped down his hands onto his pants.

"Real bad rain out there, Mister Kirkland, ya' better get yourself an umbrella real soon, hun," she placed the tied up package of supplies onto the counter before taking the change into her palm.

Curtly nodding, the package was soon tucked away into the case and closed with various clicks. Turning around and walking back towards the door, he took his cap and coat, putting them back on. Buttoning up the jacket and adjusting the open collar, our dear Virginian was soon back at the counter. Case picked up. A tip of a cap, a wave of a hand, bracelets jingling. Maybe the buttercups waved with Miss Pellein, too.

Pushing the towering door open with his forearm, Kirkland left, embarking to his suite of work once more.

It was an even colder Wednesday morning, rain punishing the industrialized working town quite greedily with its aquatic avalanche. His thin cap was no match for such a face off. Somehow, his coat managed to endure.

Today, Alfred F. Jones _should_ be present in his office. Glancing at his watch, Kirkland gave himself a small, smidget of a smile. It was 6:00 AM.

The newest experience with Americans had taught him that they had a knack for being late. Whether it was to work, to school, or to even an obligatory place like the grocery store, they still somehow found a way to arrive after a specified time.

It was the one thing that this man **hated.** With a burning passion. He couldn't stand for a single moment, having somebody who was late.

Alfred F. Jones better damn well be on time.


End file.
